


Drip

by chwheeler



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chwheeler/pseuds/chwheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sat on the beach, dripping wet and covered in sand, missing his hat. Spot also sat, shirt and hair clinging to his pale wet skin. Spot still had his hat and cane. Spot was a better swimmer than Race. Water droplets dripped off of the tip of Spot's nose. That was his favorite hat. Racetrack really hated Spot Conlon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drip

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Newsies or any of the characters depicted in this work of fiction. I am not making any sort of profit from this fic. It was done purely for fun!
> 
> I wrote the original version of this more than a year ago on post-it notes during lunch breaks at work. After much tweaking and editing (and more than one possible choice of ending), I finally deem it ready for public viewing. This is unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are wholly mine. Also, there is harsh language present in this fic (Thanks a lot, Spot and Race), even though I rated it as "general". I do not feel that the language warranted a "teen and up" rating.

“You’re an asshole.” Racetrack Higgins was wet.

“It’s your own damn fault.”

Racetrack Higgins was very wet. “Getting pushed off the pier was _my_ fault?”

“How was I supposed to know you can’t swim!?”

“I don’t live at the docks, that’s how!” He was also sitting on the beach, dripping water, getting covered with sand, and missing his hat. That was his favorite hat. Goodbye hat. May the cruel ocean be good to you!

“Well, I saved ya, didn’t I?” Spot Conlon was also wet. He had saved his hat (and his cane). Spot was a much better swimmer. Racetrack hated him. And yet, here they were.

“I don’t think saving me absolves you from almost murderin’ me.” He got up, still dripping. Change jingled in his pocket, thank god. If his money had been lost along with his hat, it’d been over. That’s what he gets for blowing his backup stash on a trifecta that was certain to win. He’d win that race before those horses would.

Spot stood too, less worse for wear and quite pleasantly wet. He whipped out his cane and used it, for once, as an actual cane. His shirt and hair clung to his pale skin. Racetrack _really_ hated him.

They tracked their way off the beach. The sand was not comforting. Race really could have drowned. That scared the living (shit) daylights out of him. He could even hear the headline and subsequent outrage: “‘Young Man drowned by Vicious Brooklyn Newsboy’, When will we get these ruffians off our great streets?” Of course, they wouldn’t mention that Race was also a newsie. Or that Racetrack had 2 years (3 and a half) on Spot. Or that neither of them were large. Certainly in ego, but definitely not in size. He wouldn’t lie though. Spot was vicious given the chance. Canes made a great thwacking sound.

“You’re such a baby.”

“What if I get pneumonia? How do I sell with pneumonia, Spot?” Race was doing it on purpose. Nagging, guilting, still dripping. Spot wasn’t an idiot. He rolled his eyes skyward.

“What do ya want?”

“Hmm, I don’t know. Maybe an apology?”

“You sound like me mudda.”

“You don’t know your mother.”

“Jerk.”

“Asshole.”

They stood. A face off. Spot, mere inches taller, an almost sickly pale complexion. He could live in the sun and still be pale. His clothes still clung. Racetrack really hated him. They stared. As much as Racetrack would (love) hate (love) to watch the water bead in Spot’s hair, creep down his nose, and softly drip off the end, it was starting to get dark. Getting locked out of the lodge house didn’t sound fun.

When he said as much, Spot rolled his eyes again. Another droplet dripped off. “Stay in Brooklyn.”

“The Brooklyn Lodging? Do you want me to get soaked?”

“You’re already soaked.”

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” Race blinked a drop of water out of his eyes.

“Are you a newsie or what? Rough it on the streets!” Carry the banner? Race hadn’t done that in a long while. His sixteen (nineteen) year old body couldn’t handle the ground. He’d gotten soft. Spot (a spry sixteen) looked at him with disdain. Drip. Spot roughed it because he preferred to, not because he had to. Jerk. Drip. Those damn water drops.

Race couldn’t stand it. He stared out at the ocean instead. The sun was nearly gone from the sky, the water glimmered. His almost grave. Spot knew he was a wimp (old man in newsie clothing). Pride, however, was his great downfall. Not sleep on the streets? Preposterous! Would he be able to move in the morning? Unlikely. Pride, dammit. 5 foot, 4 inches of it. He turned back to Spot (the ocean still mocking him by twinkling). Drip. Those damn water drops.

“Know any good spots?”

Before he knew it, Spot had guided him to an alleyway, hidden between more than two buildings. Race was positive he knew the way back. You don’t walk across a city to sell papes and not know the main streets. It was dark now. The alley was even darker. Something growled. Race realized it was his stomach.

“There’s usually no rats, so you won’t get bit.”

“Any food to eat around here?”

“I’ll find something. Got any money?”

“Use your own damn money. You almost killed me, remember?”

Race couldn’t see Spot’s face (just the outline), but if he had to guess, he would say that Spot looked like sour milk. Cheap bastard. It was Race’s turn to roll his eyes. He did it as obnoxiously as possible so Spot would see it. He dug in his pocket and found a quarter. He grabbed Spot’s hand in the dark and settled the coin in it.

“Here. Jackass.”

“Ooh, a quarter. Mr. Millionaire.” He was still holding Spot’s hand. He quickly let go. Spot turned and walked out of the alley.

“I expect change!” Race sat on the ground. He could already feel the pain. The brick wall dug into his back when he leaned against it. His clothes were still damp.

When Spot got back, he was holding two sandwiches and a bottle of something to drink. He also had a peach. There was no change.

Despite the loss of a whole quarter, Race was grateful for the food. No matter how Spot had managed to get it. (Race had a feeling the majority of, if not all, his money was sitting in Spot’s pocket.)

The bread was soft. Heavenly. They sat close together. The warm night air didn’t stifle the cold radiating from their damp clothes. Up this close, Race could see that Spot wasn’t dripping anymore. He kind of missed it. The smell of peaches wafted through the air. Spot passed the aromatic fruit his way. He took a satisfying bite out of it. He couldn’t stop himself from making a slightly obscene noise. Peaches hadn’t been a part of his diet for far too long. The ground didn’t feel quite so hard anymore.

Spot took a swig from the bottle while Race idly (watched Spot’s throat) sucked the juices from the peach. They didn’t talk. After finishing the food, they reclined against the wall a bit more. Spot, every bit as proud as Race, didn’t lean against him. Look at how tuff I am! _I_ don’t need anything soft or comforting to survive! Tired from the exciting (wet) day, Race found his head on Spot’s shoulder. His bony shoulder. Still, it was warm. Spot had dried. Race really hated him.

Race had dreams of being caught in the tides and yanked out of Savior Spot Conlon’s arms. The water was cold and tasted terrible. He called out to Spot to no avail. Drip. And there that damn water drop went again. He wasn’t in the ocean anymore. He was on Spot’s docks, surrounded by the toughest of the Brooklyn newsies. All of them were exceedingly wet. Drip. And dripping. Maybe that’s why Spot likes the docks so much. All of them. Drip.

Spot stood tall (short and skinny) in the middle. He was rather triumphant looking. He was completely dry. Race approached him.

Pond scum, Spot’s expression called him.

“You’ve never seen a pond in your life, Conlon.”

Puddle scum, he revised.

“Puddles don’t have scum.”

Screw you, Higgins!

“Go get soaked!”

I hate you.

“Oh yeah? Well I really fucking hate you!”

Spot looked confused. He wasn’t tall anymore. In fact, he looked like he did when they met. A skinny, little squirt of a ten year old. Paler than ever and big puppy dog eyes. Neither the cruel scowl nor the shrewd smirk had settled on his face yet. Only confusion.

Why?

“Wait, I didn’t mean it!” A boy grabbed Race’s arm. And then another, and another. Spot! Help! Spot only looked confused and young. He just watched. The boys hoisted Race into the air and started carrying him. He wriggled to no avail. Sweet Jesus, Mary and Joseph, someone help. The water!

They lifted him, splash! He writhed, trying to surface. Swimming? Fucking swimming, he practically lived at the racetrack. Land as land can be! Drip.

There was Spot. Still ten, grabbing his arms, but he was too heavy. Nineteen versus ten. It wasn’t going to happen. He started to drag him down into the depths. Just leave, Spot! Save yourself.

Why?

He wanted to say why, he really did. And it wasn’t because he really _hated_ Spot Conlon.

Drip—that _fucking_ dripping!

And there he was, awake in the alley. The sun wasn’t quite up yet. They were fully on the ground now, huddled completely into each other. Spot’s head had found its way onto his chest, a hand creeping its way around his waist. Spot looked nice asleep. No smirk, no scowl. He looked ten again.

Race wanted to get up and out of that alley as fast as possible. If somebody found them like this (it’s a back alley, who’ll find you)…. After (barely any) much deliberation, all while trying to ignore the warmth of Spot almost on top of him, he decided going back to sleep wouldn’t be too bad.

When Race woke the next morning, he was Spot-free. Next to him were the leftovers from the night before and only a few flies. He shooed them and ate the leftover bread. Stale. He all but trudged out of the alley. His clothes itched. It was later in the day than he had thought. A complete waste of a day.

Race found himself back out on the pier. He couldn’t bother with the papes. That dream, the alley, fucking Spot Conlon. He stared out at the water. Someone sidled up next to him.

Speak of the devil.

Spot was holding, oddly enough, an ice cream cone. The cold confection dripped down his hand.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Why are you still in Brooklyn?”

“I overslept, no thanks to you.” Spot held out the cone. Race took it gratefully. The ice cream felt good in the sun. Spot licked the drop off of his hand.

They stood in silence. The ocean looked much the same as it had the day before. They listened to the waves. Race licked at the ice cream some more. He could feel Spot’s eyes burning into him.

“Look, about yesterday… it’s fine.” Race wasn’t sure when he had forgiven Spot. Hell, even why. He couldn’t look at Spot, he handed the cone over instead. Spot’s fingers brushed against his. Race let go and turned to walk away. A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. Race still couldn’t look, so instead he listened.

“Hey, I know… I know can be a jerk sometimes.” Was that really Spot talking? Race had to stop himself from turning to check. “I don’t usually do this.”

“Yeah, I’m well aware.”

“So… Sorry.” It was unbearable. Race had to glance. Spot (pale and skinny Spot who he couldn’t believe actually existed) not scowling but not smiling, stared out at the ocean. Drip. The ice cream had almost completely melted, more on Spot’s hand now than in the cone. Spot stared at the ocean, Race stared at Spot. He took a small step forward, bringing himself completely next to the taller (barely) newsie.

The cone once again passed into his hands. He looked out again at the ocean.

“You gonna push me in for revenge?” Race laughed and ignored the drip forming on his own hand.

“Nah, you can swim, it wouldn’t be worth it.” The ocean looked peaceful. Comforting.

“What would be worth it?” Spot’s voice was quiet. A nigh undetectable tremor cut through. Race glanced once again at Spot, who stared rigidly out at the ocean. If he looked hard enough (how could he not), he could see the innocent ten year old he once knew. In front of him stood the sixteen year old he still knew. Not Spot, the formidable Brooklyn newsie. Spot, the skinny kid who stole his quarters and brought him peaches and ice cream. He didn’t hate Spot Conlon. Not even a little bit.

“What would be worth it? Not a goddamn thing.”


End file.
